User blog comment:Biggren/The Northern March Original/@comment-3135907-20170110030234

It was a fascinating and a terrible sight that none saw; as shadows chased by shadows chased after shadows through the woodland gloom, the rolling clouds of the late afternoon began to water the great mysterious garden that was Mossflower Wood.

The time of day was meaningless, like the thin shafts of light that penetrated the arboreal canopy but to no end, serving neither to light the path of the pursuers nor the pursued: the darkness, however, was an ally only to the unseen pursuers of both vermin and hares. Time and light meant nothing to the Painted Ones, revellers in shadow and confusion.

While the vermin and hares were slowed by the lack of illumination, the Painted Ones were emboldened by it.

An arrow, a dark rust red with a natural root poison, whizzed past both Serrano and Grimear, reminding pursuers and pursued that they were not alone.

The devils of the wood were awakened. And they were coming.

Dazzi rushed alongside Serrano, a crude dagger in paw. "Hoi, wait fer me, Serro!"